generaljanuary

Here are a few snippets I wrote while away on holiday.

My desires calmly walk on the edge of my peripheral vision. They are merely glimpses, merely a surge of emotion ; too sharp and short to be named. They have no sense of being, barely existing on the too real line that separates what is and what could be, going back and forth, never stagnant. They are constantly in motion, morphing and evolving, yet never taking shape. Never taking roots. Never fulfilled.

I might have called them ghosts, had I been more aware.

The edgy music's bass tugged at my heart the same way their smiles did. I hoped the feeling was genuine and not induced by the thump thump or their various resemblances to people I love, duplicated by the distance. I felt polluted by my unease, by my awkward silences and void smiles. I felt out of place with this family knit tight by years and years of out of reach shared memories, while for all my life they had merely been names to me. There was absolutely nothing to be done about those years I had missed on, so I mourned them for a minute. Hearing them laughing in the distance, I pulled my jacket closer to me, hoping the wind could carry time away
.

My friend is a tiny teetering thing in a tank top. She drives a white pick up truck and chases geese through the woods. She tracks and trails them with nets and harness; very apt poultry-catching devices. On those birds and whatnot, she implants tracking chips. She is studying how many of them you can fit in between the tress, or something among those lines. When she shares the tales of her feather flock-filled days, her small delicate features contort into chicken hatred-induced annoyance. She retraces how they fruitlessly flail their flawed wings, a feeble effort for they are inefficient at flying. She recalls how most of them get away, how they are tempestuous beasts no one should have to reckon with. She elaborates perfect and precise strings of word to describe the shape of their beaks or clawed legs. A minuscule small slips on her sly lips as she decorates them with uncharacteristic traits. "Plotting" or "Evil". It is hilarious that she, of all people, would describe them as such, for she is certain of the average size of their blithering birdy brains and possesses a fair idea of its nerve influx and responses to stimulus or some such.
I once asked why she accepted to sport scrapes and scratches on their account if she knew no compassion for them. Of course, she detected my attempt at making her admit that she was saving their specie. She paused, collecting her thorough thoughts, for sure. She firstly admitted that she was saving their habitat, economically ecological thing that she is. She then carefully rested her fragile temple upon her small ball of a fist and smiled a genuine smile as delicate as a wing. As delicate as her inspiring poultry-filled heart. Wrapped in feathers of enigma, I could now clearly see it, pouring out of her. Her love for her work. And it was beautiful.

That last one was for my childhood friend Audree who does spend her days chasing geese. n_n=